


Remember Me

by DustStorm96



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Molly Hooper, Bullying, Kid Molly, Kid Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 06:06:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4865882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustStorm96/pseuds/DustStorm96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly didn't always know Sherlock as the high-functioning sociopath and consulting detective, not when they were children. . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember Me

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea for this from a Sherlock head cannon I found. It's a work in progress and there is a plot forming so stay tuned.

2005  
Working in a morgue was never my first career choice. As a child, I wanted to be a dancer, a nurse, or one of those girls who worked in a candy shop.  
‘It’s so strange how much one person can change in one lifetime,’ I thought as I walked through St. Bartholomew’s Research Army Hospital. Mr. Collins, the head director, was a little concerned that a young woman spending so much time down there surrounded by the deceased, but I assured him it would be fine. I didn’t mind being lonely.  
I pushed open a pair of double doors and turned on the lights. The florescent lights flickered on, illuminating a large gray room filled with several autopsy tables. On the far side of the room was a wall of black drawers, similar to file cabinets, containing the bodies used for experiments. I checked to make sure everyone was accounted for, as was protocol. I wondered what I was supposed to do if one of the bodies were missing. Maybe the zombie apocalypse will start right here in this morgue. Call the cops? I giggled at the thought of me explaining to someone at Scotland Yard that one of the corpses have simply gotten up and walked away. They would think I was a nutter for sure.  
Since I was not given any specific tasks to do by the police or otherwise, I started to clean the place. With a rag and cleaning solution in hand, I started to clean the laboratory in the next room. After about a half an hour, I became aware of the sound of rapid footsteps coming down the stairs. Before I could get up to see who it was, the lab doors burst open.  
“Karen! I ran out of toes. I also need a pair of eyes and some choric acid.”  
I gapped at the visitor.  
It was Sherlock Holmes!  
He was older, of course. We haven’t seen each other in years, but his face looked almost exactly like I had seen him last, with dark curly hair, sharp cheekbones and piercing green eyes.  
Sherlock’s gaze scanned the room quickly and then settled on me, still sitting the floor, staring up at him like an idiot.  
“New lab assistant?” he asked, “Where’s Karen?”  
“Who?”  
Sherlock sighed impatiently.  
“Karen. Works here in the morgue, eats an excessive amount of fish, divorced three times . . .” his voice trailed off.  
“Do you mean Katharine?” I asked. The women I replaced by taking this job was named Katharine.  
“Yes, Katharine. Where is she?”  
“Katharine doesn’t work here anymore. I’m here as her replacement,” I told him as I got up and dusted myself off. There was no recollection in his face of who I was.  
“I’m Molly Hooper,” I prompted.  
“And I am Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock told me quickly, “Now, Ms. Hooper, I need toes, eyes and more choric acid.”  
My face fell. He didn’t remember me.  
Without waiting for my response, Sherlock went back into the main room. He strolled over to the long wall of drawers, looking at all the ones with bodies in them. Odd. He seemed to know it well, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to be doing that.  
Instead of telling Sherlock this, I said, “I guess you don’t remember me, Sherlock, but we grew up together.” Sherlock paused at what he was doing for a moment and then ignored me, inspecting the bodies.  
“We lived down the street from each other,” I continued, moving to his side, as if that would catch his attention, “Our mothers used to be friends. They would set up play dates between us . . .”  
“Ms. Hooper, I have no idea what you are talking about,” Sherlock interrupted me harshly.  
“I’m sorry. I must be confusing you with someone else,” I whispered, but I knew I wasn’t  
How many Sherlock Holmeses were there in the world that looked like a beautiful dark angel?  
Finally he found a set of toes that fit his liking.  
“These will do,” Sherlock said looking at the feet of a 45 year-old man who died from a heart attack, “I would prefer the toes be cut as large as possible for experiment’s sake.”  
I stared at him in bewildmant. It was true that I didn’t know all the employees at Bart’s yet, being so new but I was almost positive Sherlock Holmes didn’t work here. Even if I was wrong and he did, Sherlock’s long, dark wool coat was not the proper attire of a research doctor.  
“I’m sorry Sherlock but I’m going to need to know that I have the authority to do this for you.”  
Sherlock sighed in exasperation.  
“I am sure you have been given word that I have permission for experimental purposes.”  
I ran through the information Mr. Collins gave me during orientation on my first day in my head. I vaguely remembered him mentioning a detective who consulted with Scotland Yard would drop by every once in a while. I raced to my office and looked through a filing cabinet that was kept in the back. I pulled out a file folder of important documents needed for the job. Inside I found a contract signed by Mr. Collins and an Inspector Lestrade to allow body parts be taken from the morgue for experiments. The third signature belonged to Sherlock.  
Against my better judgment, I prepared the items he asked for (the toes, eyes and chloric acid), put them in containers, and handed them to him as he walked out the door.  
“Thank you, Mary” Sherlock called over his shoulder and then, he was gone, like a ghost, out of my life again.

1990  
Molly: age 10  
“The new family just moved in down the street,” my brother, Simon called up to the tree house where I was playing. As quick as I could, I climbed down the ladder and raced across the lawn so I could look down the street at The Old Preston House. Sure enough, the “For Sale” sign was gone and a moving van had appeared in the driveway.  
“What do they look like?” I asked, peeking though our neighbor’s bushes to keep from being seen, “Did you see them?”  
“Yeah,” Simon said, coming up behind me, “young couple with two boys. I was too far away to really tell their ages, but the older one was early teens and the younger one looked about six.”  
I bit back my disappointment. I was hoping a girl my age would move in. As long as I could remember, most of my playmates were older boys.  
At dinner that night, Mum insisted that we all introduce ourselves to the new neighbors the next day.  
“Can’t, I’m going to the Cinema with Tory,” said my oldest brother, Glen.  
“Lucas is tutoring me at his house tomorrow,” Simon added. He was lying of course. Lucas Taylor, who has the I.Q. of a brick, was the last person to be asked to tutor anyone. Most likely, the two were going to the park to bully little kids out of their lunch money. The twins, 7-year-old Parker and Penny, didn’t want to go either. Penny didn’t because she was shy and didn’t like meeting new people and, Parker, because Glen and Simon weren’t going. Mum turned to me, who was the only one at the table who didn’t make any kind of protest.  
“Molly, would you like to go with Mummy to see the new neighbors?”  
I just shrugged. I really did want to meet them but I didn’t want Simon to know that. In the end, it was decided that only Mum and I would go meet the new family. Dad would stay home to watch the twins.  
Standing at the front door of the Old Preston House, I was nervous. ‘I hope the like me,’ I thought looking down at my favorite dress. It was blue with white flowers and swished when I when I moved side to side. Mum, holding a freshly made pie, rang the doorbell.  
Expectation was eating me alive. Would they like me? What were the parents like? What were the kids like? What about . . .?  
Suddenly a woman opened the front door. She was about Mum’s height with brown, curly hair.  
“Oh hello,” the women said brightly, “we weren’t expecting company.”  
“I’m sorry, is this a bad time?” Mum asked.  
“Oh no! I wanted to meet everyone here and better late then never, right?”  
She ushered us inside and led us to the living room. After introducing herself as Sophia Holmes, she disappeared with the pie.  
“Thomas, some of the neighbors down the street came to visit!” called the women from somewhere in the house.  
A tall, thin man appeared out of nowhere.  
“Hello, I’m Thomas Holmes,” he said, shaking Mum’s hand.  
“I’m Anna Hooper,” Mum responded, “and this is my daughter, Molly. My husband and I have four other children at home but unfortunately they had other things they had to do today.”  
Mr. Holmes nodded and said, “Sophie and I have two boys ourselves. Willy is about your age,” winking at me.  
I looked down at my hands, my face getting warm.  
Mrs. Holmes came back with a pitcher of lemonade and cups. As the grownups chatted, I looked around the room with interest. The Old Preston House was the biggest house in the neighborhood and had been vacant since I can remember. According to legend (or at least what Simon told me), a man named Benjamin Preston lived here 50 years ago with his wife and two kids. One day, Old Man Preston found out his wife was cheating on him and went bonkers. He chopped up his family with his ax and buried them in the backyard where their spirits still haunt to this day.  
“Mother, I can’t find the box my books are in,” said a new voice, breaking me out of my daydream.  
I looked up to find a boy had entered the room.  
He was 13 or 14 years old with perfectly combed light brown hair and was wearing a dark flannel shirt and slacks.  
“It could be in our bedroom, Sweet em’s,” Mrs. Holmes told the boy, “Mikey, say hello to our new neighbors.”  
The boy said “hello” and gave us a pleasant smile but when his mother’s back was turned, shot her a look of annoyance.  
“Mike, where’s your brother?” Mr. Holmes asked him as he began to leave.  
“He’s in the back playing pirates,” the boy answered.  
Mrs. Holmes turned to me with a smile on her face.  
“Why don’t you go and join him, sweetie?”  
Mum agreed and, after a quick instruction about how to get outside, I left to meet the younger Holmes boy.  
From the back porch, I saw a small child swinging a toy sword. On his head was an over-sized pirate hat. He stabbed and jabbed at an invisible opponent.  
Suddenly the boy stopped and looked at me. In embarrassment and not sure what else to do, I walked up to him and stuck out my hand.  
“I’m Molly Hooper. I live down the street.”  
The boy took off his hat, revealing a mass of black, curly hair.  
“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, shaking my hand.  
Sherlock?  
“I thought your name was ‘Willy’.”  
The boy gave a snort of disgust.  
“My first name is William but I prefer Sherlock.”  
I gave Sherlock Holmes a quick once-over. Simon was right. He did look like he was six.  
“How old are you?”  
“I’m eight,” Sherlock said simply, picking up his sword and pirate hat and tossed them to the side.  
My eyes wondered about the yard, hoping to see the spirits of the Preston family peeking around the bushes.  
“Since you’re a girl, you probably don’t want to swordfight,” Sherlock said, catching my attention.  
“I have older brothers,” I told him defensively. I didn’t want to be pushed into the frilly clothes and wouldn’t-touch-a-worm-with-a-ten-foot-pole stereotype just because I’m a girl.  
“You don’t have any recent scraps or bruises, indicating you don’t often rough house and anyway, you’re in a dress,” Sherlock responded.  
I looked down automatically and realized I was in a dress, my favorite Sunday dress, which was not the proper thing to be wearing while playing.  
“Okay then, since the grown ups aren’t going to be finished visiting soon and we can’t play your pirate game, what do you want to do?”  
Sherlock thought for a moment and then his face lit up.  
“Do you want to play deductions?”  
“I don’t know what that is,” I admitted.  
Sherlock vibrated with excitement.  
“I’ll show you,” he told me and then disappeared around the house. I sat down on the porch steps and waited. When Sherlock came back, he was carrying an old boot. He set it down in front of me.  
“In the game of ‘Deductions’,” Sherlock instructed, “we compete against each other in gathering as much information as possible about the former owner of this boot.”  
I looked at Sherlock Holmes in surprise.  
What kind of eight-year-old was this?  
“You go first,” Sherlock told me. I looked at the boot on the ground.  
“It’s a man’s work boot,” I said lamely.  
Now it was Sherlock’s turn. He picked up the boot, examining it from every angle. Then he said, “There are woodchips stuck in the caked mud on the bottom of the boots. Since this suburb was only built about 10 years ago and this house is obviously older then that, this man could have lived here when it was just woodlands and fields, cutting firewood. Also this type of boot was first made in the 40s, so the owner must be about 60 since the boots are for a grown man.”  
When he was finished, Sherlock handed the boot off to me.  
“I’m not sure what else to say,” I said, setting the boot down.  
“Come on, Molly, say something.”  
“No, you win.”  
I got up from the porch and dusted myself off.  
“Let’s do something else. How ‘bout we look for ghosts?”  
“Excuse me?”  
I then happily told Sherlock the legend of the Preston house. When I finished, he stared at me in amazement.  
“That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard.”  
“It could be true,” I argued.  
“Maybe the part where Mr. Preston murdered his family but this house isn’t haunted. Ghosts aren’t real.”  
“How do you know for sure?” I asked.  
“”Because it’s pure logic!” Sherlock cried, “Ghosts are from fairytales and horror stories. Only a dim-witted moron would believe in them.”  
Tears stung my eyes.  
“Shut up, you FREAK!” I screamed. I waited just long enough before turning around and running inside to see a look of hurt dancing in his eyes.  
I told Mum that I was leaving and then raced home. I never wanted to see Sherlock Holmes again.  
Weeks passed and summer vacation started. Sherlock and his older brother never seemed to venture past their front door. Their parents however, seemed to enjoy fixing up the old house to make it look livable. Simon and his buddies started spreading rumors that the Holmes boys were vampires who only came outside at night to feed.  
“Why do you think their parents bought such a big house?” Simon said, “They need lots of room where they can stay out of the sunlight so they won’t get burned to a crisp”  
I simply ignored them and stayed out of their way.  
Most of the time, I spend by myself playing in my tree house. If I got bored with that, I helped Dad with his car. He’s fixing up an old clunker that his friend sold him for a couple pounds. Mum says it’s not worth it and the whole thing is a piece of junk but at least he’s enjoying himself.  
We would spend hours talking about random subjects while he was fixing up that old car.  
“Molly,” Dad told me one day, “You need to apologize to that Holmes boy.”  
“But Dad, he started it,” I whined.  
“Maybe so but, he is younger then you and you need to set a good example. Who knows? You two might end up friends.”  
I shook my head in disagreement.  
“Sherlock is only a year older the Twins. Why can’t he be friends with them?”  
“Well, according to what his parents say, William is pretty mature for his age and prefers older children.” Dad said, with his head hidden under the hood of the car. My parents refused to buy into the idea that Sherlock should be called by his nickname. I just sighed. I knew Dad was right so, the next day I baked a batch of cookies and headed to the Preston House.  
“I’m sorry, Molly,” Mrs. Holmes said when she answered the door, “But Willy’s out at the moment but, I’ll be sure to tell him you stopped by.”  
I was both surprised and disappointed.  
Sherlock never came outside much farther then his backyard. I was hoping I could make my apology in person. Not knowing what else to do. I headed to the park.  
When I passed the storage building next to the pool, I heard voices coming around the back. Someone was crying. As I rounded the corner, I found Simon standing in front of Sherlock. Lucas Taylor and Brad Bailey held Sherlock against the wall. A dark stream of blood ran from his nose, staining his shirt. Both of Simon’s hands were clenched into fists. There was blood on his hand. “Think you are so smart, you little pipsqueak?” Simon asked, “This will teach you.” He wound up for another punch. I charged forward and tackled my brother. My unexpected weight knocked Simon to the ground.  
“Molly! What are you doing?”  
“Don’t you have any shame? There’s three of you and he’s half your size,” I cried.  
I thought my words hit home but when Simon got up, he punched Sherlock hard in the stomach. Sherlock groaned in pain.  
“Simon, he’s had enough! Leave him alone,” I screamed.  
Simon signaled for Lucas and Brad to let Sherlock go and they left. Sherlock slid down to the ground. I rushed over to him.  
“Sherlock, are you alright?”  
He sat up and wiped some of the blood on his shirtsleeve.  
“Better now,” he told me, “Of course, Mycroft has had it worst. A couple of years ago, he deduced an older boy was cheating on his girlfriend and revealed it her. That boy and his friends ganged up on him later and broke his arm.”  
“Your brother?”  
“Yeah”  
I couldn’t help but laugh.  
“What?” Sherlock asked defensively.  
“It’s just your names. Sherlock, Mycroft. I’ve never heard those names before.”  
By now we had gotten up and were on our way home.  
“Mycroft and I were named after a couple of Mother’s great uncles. The Sherlock part anyway. I was also named after my Grandfather William on my Father’s side.” Sherlock told me.  
“I was named after a toy. All my mum’s favorite dolls were named ‘Molly’, growing up.”  
We both laughed and were silent for a few moments.  
“Sherlock, I’m sorry for calling you a freak,” I said at last.  
“And I am sorry for calling you a dim-witted moron,” Sherlock added, “Truce?”  
“Truce.”  
By then, we had gotten to the Preston house. To keep Mrs. Holmes from knowing about Sherlock’s predicament, we went through the back and snuck to the kitchen.  
After moving some dusty boxes from the island in the kitchen, I got some paper towels and a wet rag to clean Sherlock’s face.  
“Why did Simon hit you?” I asked while wiping up the now dried blood around his nose and mouth.  
“I bit him,” Sherlock said with a smile. Blood had gotten in his mouth, making his teeth appear pink.  
“You know, if you would have given Simon some money, they would have left you alone.”  
Sherlock shook his head.  
“No, they wouldn’t have,” he said, “The biting was just self-defense. Before that, I said something that made him angry.”  
“What did you say?”  
By now, I had cleaned up the blood. I found a cup and filled it with water.  
Sherlock took the cup and used it to clean out his mouth.  
After spitting the water in the sink, Sherlock said, “I’m not going to tell, I don’t want you to be mad at me.”  
I was about to protest when I heard someone cry, “Willy, what happened to you?” behind me.  
I looked at Sherlock.  
Shoot. We forgot about changing Sherlock’s shirt. The entire front was covered with blood from his nose.  
Mrs. Holmes raced across the kitchen to her son and started cooing over him like he was a baby.  
“I found him at the park....” I started to explain but stopped. Should I tell her about Simon?  
“I ran into a tree,” Sherlock finished for me. I nodded in agreement. Mrs. Holmes looked at both of us doubtfully, but left it alone. Looking at the clock on the wall, I gasped.  
“Sorry, but, I need to get home for supper. Bye Mrs. Holmes, See you later, Sherlock!” I told them as I ran out.

**Author's Note:**

> Update:  
> Sorry but this work has been abandoned. I might continue it one day, maybe.  
> I hope you liked what was there. I did have fun writing this chapter.


End file.
